Read Online A Private State: Stories by Charlotte Bacon - Free Book Online
Authors: Charlotte Bacon
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fire in a watery way, we wrapped our heads in towels and leafed through catalogs. Naomi admired a wicker birdcage. I showed her a gadget of steel that hid a fistful of tools useful in disasters. If we hadn't just doused ourselves in lemon, our splits in taste might have spoiled the mood. But the catalogs, the cool room, the turban slipping from my pulpy headthe whole thing edged us as close as we ever got to calm. Shivering for beauty in the presence of my odd and pretty mother, I felt for a few moments as delicately modeled as the handle of a bone-china pitcher.
Part of the spell was silence, but on Sunday Naomi put down Nordstrom's summer circular, looked at me and said, "I'm thinking about cutting it all off."
"What?" I said, "Your hair?" I didn't believe her. Naomi without long hair would be like the Venus de Milo with arms. Wrong.
"It weighs me down," she said. I waited, very cautious. Mostly, this was how I saw Naomi: slinging forks and spoons in separate slots, shifting lanes on highways. She never paused to confide. Then she went back to Nordstrom's and we slipped into our usual state of not being at all sure where the other person stood.
This was why it helped to touch things like trees and fences, which usually stayed where they were put. I realized then I'd
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wandered past downtown. My hand was curled around the sign-pole that marked Sheepscot Street, home of the Dusseaults, an older couple from Québec. We'd spoken a few times, though our shaky holds on one another's language often kept us in the realm of mime. Mr. Dusseault's passion was splitting logs. Un, deux, trois, I heard tonight. He counted when he cut. Madame's linens snapped on the line. Where was she? It being Tuesday, probably Lewiston, visiting her sister, a habit I'd learned about on my last visit.
Then a bug zapper flared next door and I knew the real reason my feet had taken me here. Jake and his father lived one house down from the Dusseaults. My fingers wound into a yew bush, I looked for signs that they were home. But the house looked empty. Jake was pulled to other places, too, if I understood his landscapes in the margins of the math book, all thatched huts and men playing minute guitars. I could have told him to give his palms less bounce. If he'd been curious, we could even have talked about our year in L.A., where we'd lived close to a weak spot in the earth's crust. But there was never an opening, and I was much better at imagined conversations than actual ones. I wasn't even sure he knew my name.
I was about to turn back when I heard laughter on the screened porch. It was a porch like ours but larger, with a sofa and a radio playing jazz, scratchy after coming from somewhere further south. After a moment, I recognized Mr. Loiseau. His voice was so relaxed it took a second to connect it to a man who had to prevent the reckless use of Bunsen burners. Then it struck me that I knew the other voice as well, also at a pitch I didn't often hear. In the zapper's flash, I saw Mr. Loiseau's hands were twined into a woman's. I'd heard the voice. It had to be Naomi, but she was letting someone touch her.
Mr. Dusseault's ax rang, and apart from the thud of metal on wood all my mind could hold was a picture of the Doctor calling for her as he drained a beer can hollow. I was stumbling into the
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street when a scream went up. Mr. Dusseault was darting around his yard. He raced to his wife's laundry line and grabbed with one hand at a towel. He was moaning now and I saw the flush of blood on the white cloth. ''Mother of God," I heard Naomi say. "He's chopped off part of his hand." She stood up, leaving Mr. Loiseau to stare while Mr. Dusseault tore back to his logs, scrabbling on the ground.
"The poor bastard's looking for it," said Mr. Loiseau. That was when they both saw me. The next thing I remembered I was in Naomi's car holding a towel stuffed with ice and what was left of a thumb, still speckled with pine needles. Naomi told Mr.
Part of the spell was silence, but on Sunday Naomi put down Nordstrom's summer circular, looked at me and said, "I'm thinking about cutting it all off."
"What?" I said, "Your hair?" I didn't believe her. Naomi without long hair would be like the Venus de Milo with arms. Wrong.
"It weighs me down," she said. I waited, very cautious. Mostly, this was how I saw Naomi: slinging forks and spoons in separate slots, shifting lanes on highways. She never paused to confide. Then she went back to Nordstrom's and we slipped into our usual state of not being at all sure where the other person stood.
This was why it helped to touch things like trees and fences, which usually stayed where they were put. I realized then I'd
Page 53
wandered past downtown. My hand was curled around the sign-pole that marked Sheepscot Street, home of the Dusseaults, an older couple from Québec. We'd spoken a few times, though our shaky holds on one another's language often kept us in the realm of mime. Mr. Dusseault's passion was splitting logs. Un, deux, trois, I heard tonight. He counted when he cut. Madame's linens snapped on the line. Where was she? It being Tuesday, probably Lewiston, visiting her sister, a habit I'd learned about on my last visit.
Then a bug zapper flared next door and I knew the real reason my feet had taken me here. Jake and his father lived one house down from the Dusseaults. My fingers wound into a yew bush, I looked for signs that they were home. But the house looked empty. Jake was pulled to other places, too, if I understood his landscapes in the margins of the math book, all thatched huts and men playing minute guitars. I could have told him to give his palms less bounce. If he'd been curious, we could even have talked about our year in L.A., where we'd lived close to a weak spot in the earth's crust. But there was never an opening, and I was much better at imagined conversations than actual ones. I wasn't even sure he knew my name.
I was about to turn back when I heard laughter on the screened porch. It was a porch like ours but larger, with a sofa and a radio playing jazz, scratchy after coming from somewhere further south. After a moment, I recognized Mr. Loiseau. His voice was so relaxed it took a second to connect it to a man who had to prevent the reckless use of Bunsen burners. Then it struck me that I knew the other voice as well, also at a pitch I didn't often hear. In the zapper's flash, I saw Mr. Loiseau's hands were twined into a woman's. I'd heard the voice. It had to be Naomi, but she was letting someone touch her.
Mr. Dusseault's ax rang, and apart from the thud of metal on wood all my mind could hold was a picture of the Doctor calling for her as he drained a beer can hollow. I was stumbling into the
Page 54
street when a scream went up. Mr. Dusseault was darting around his yard. He raced to his wife's laundry line and grabbed with one hand at a towel. He was moaning now and I saw the flush of blood on the white cloth. ''Mother of God," I heard Naomi say. "He's chopped off part of his hand." She stood up, leaving Mr. Loiseau to stare while Mr. Dusseault tore back to his logs, scrabbling on the ground.
"The poor bastard's looking for it," said Mr. Loiseau. That was when they both saw me. The next thing I remembered I was in Naomi's car holding a towel stuffed with ice and what was left of a thumb, still speckled with pine needles. Naomi told Mr.
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